Friends. This past weekend…did not go 100% as I’d hoped.
It’s practically written into the Colorado constitution that all residents must own a bicycle, and since I haven’t really ridden a bike in 15 years, I’ve been looking into used “starter” bikes. Then, last weekend, my cousin’s husband told me about the Denver Police’s annual auction of unclaimed stolen bikes. A wide variety of used bikes with badass back stories? I was sold.
I got up early(ish) on Saturday and headed to the auction location, where I knew immediately I was in trouble. The line to register spanned the parking lot. However, after spending over six years in NYC, I am not one to be intimidated by bike-loving hipsters, so I claimed my spot in line. After signing up with cowboy hat-wearing auctioneer named Slim – a roguish middle-aged flirt – I proceeded to inspect the bikes on offer. They had everything from busted up Huffy bikes with no seats to sleek thousand-dollar road bikes, but nothing in the first few rows caught my attention. And then I saw it: a sky-blue Trek Navigator, complete with a bell! She would be mine.
As the auction began, I realized that due to the number of ladies in attendance, coupled with the dearth of lady bikes, it would take a tiny miracle for Lady Navigator and I to be united, a desire that was surely trembling as strongly in her gears as it was in my heart.
Lady Navigator was way far down on the list, so I was entertained by the auctioneers as they unloaded the busted Huffy bikes for $40 and the fancy road bikes for $500. I got irrationally angry as a girl with too much eyeliner and an exposed bra bought not one but TWO bikes, as though there were enough for seconds.
As I waited, I decided on a self-imposed limit of $175, since that’s a chunk of change but still leaves room for any necessary repairs. Then, finally, Slim held up Lady Navigator. She gleamed in the fluorescent light of the tire shop/auction space. I clasped my now sweaty auction card, ready to flash my number. The bidding began, and at least five cards shot up when they started the sing-song numbers at $100. My card was lost in the crowd as the numbers grew higher. Lady Navigator was, indeed, sold for $175…but not to me.
To recover the day, I was forced to go day drinking with my friends. Luckily, if anything can mend a broken heart, it’s mimosas in a back yard on a sunny day.
On Sunday, I participated in the Dirty Dash, a 5K mud run/obstacle course. Our team – the Hoosiers – were clad in crimson and cream and ready to get dirty. Historically, I’ve never considered signing up for one of these, because I am the girl who falls down. Stairs, usually. I’ve fallen down stairs at the water park…in my own house (socks on carpet is a dangerous combo)…even broke a toe and drenched myself in Diet Pepsi while falling down stairs at college. THIS TIME, I vowed, would be different. I would be brave and graceful and capable.
As we lined up at the start, I looked at my friend and said, “I’m so nervous! I’m probably going to break an ankle running through the tires! Ha ha!”
I’ll give you a minute to place your bets.
We splash through the first mud puddle, round the corner, and there before us is a field of tires, which we must run through. I hop timidly into the first tire, and then with each one I begin to feel more sure-footed. I actually get a little annoyed with the girl in front of me, who is carefully picking her way through the honeycomb of rubber. As I hop to the side to get around her, my left foot catches the inside of a tire, rolls, and I feel the telltale pop of an ankle sprain. Mind you, this is 2 minutes into this 5K.
Determined not to be a pansy quitter, I
limped marched back to the first aid station, asked the EMT to “tape the shit out of that sucker,” and then returned to the starting line. I ran the whole 5K, including most of the obstacles, and felt incredibly proud of myself. Then the adrenaline abruptly left my body, and I felt incredibly in pain. The foxy EMT re-taped my ankle and gave me a ride on his four-wheeler, and then I had a beer with my friends (the second best option after backyard mimosas). I moseyed my way to the urgent care, where they x-rayed my fat, bruised, monster ankle. The doctor thought the x-rays looked fine and sent me home with a nifty gel stirrup.
Monday morning, I got a voicemail from urgent care: “Hi Jessica. The radiologist took a look at your x-rays…and he found some fractures, so you’ll either need to come back and we’ll put you in a boot, or schedule an appointment with your doctor. Oh, and we never charged you for the air cast, so if you could stop by and pay for it, that would be great, thanks!”
HOWEVER, turns out they’re just little bone slivers pulled off by the ligaments (because my ligaments are too badass to tear! They just rip off pieces of bone!), and I only have to wear a compression brace for a couple weeks and avoid running for five.
Hopefully I’ll redeem myself next weekend…